


And do we not live in dreams?

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has dreams, but no two are the same. A collection of drabbles, centered around nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And do we not live in dreams?

_Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?_ -Alfred Lord Tennyson

Gunshots echoed through the air, ringing in his ears long after the noise had stopped. Blood was everywhere. On his hands, on his face, in his hair, all over the body in front of him. He could smell it, taste it, even. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread as he reached for the body in front of him. As the shouts of his dying comrades filled his head, he grasped the man's shoulder, flipped him over, and felt his heart drop out of his chest. Because the man lying on the ground in front of him had curly dark hair that flopped over his forehead, partially obscuring his face, distinct cheekbones, stunning blue-grey eyes, and was heartbreakingly familiar. Blood ran from his temple, matting his hair and dripping onto the sand below him. Only, it was no longer sand. The desert was gone. He was crouched on the pavement in front of a tall building (St. Bart's Hospital, his mind supplied), his knees screaming with pain from his position on the ground, his head swimming with pain and grief and loss. He reached towards the body, but just before he could touch him, the air exploded, throwing him backwards, his vision blurring with pain. His shoulder was burning, sending stabs of pain through his entire body. He forced his eyes open, to see a figure standing over him. He blinked once, twice, three times, and the maniacally grinning face of Jim Moriarty swam into view. "Hello, John." The psychopath purred. "Glad to see me?"

John Watson sat up abruptly, tears mingling with sweat as he returned to reality. His shoulder ached fiercely. He swiped once at his face before swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his cane. At one point, he wouldn't have needed any aid to stand, but that time seems so far away, like another life. John struggled to his feet and limped slowly out of his bedroom. He knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep. For a second, he caught himself taking care to be quiet, so as to not wake anyone else, but he quickly stopped himself, letting his feet fall heavily on the smooth floor. After all, there was no one left to be quiet for. He settled on the couch and reached for his laptop, opening it and turning it on. He checked the clock as the computer lit up, bathing the flat in a sickly white light. He opened his blog and stared at it for a second before sighing and burying his head in his hands. _One more miracle, Sherlock. Please… For me._


End file.
